A Friend in Need
by MissNerdyWings
Summary: Whilst on a case, Sherlock is shot by men pursuing Mycroft, and it falls to John to help him recover. Plenty of Johnlock fluff. Rated K for light language.
1. Chapter 1

**The Johnlock continues! Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any characters, brands, etc. I may mention later on. Reviews are welcome, negative or otherwise. The situation is created from my own mind, but let me know if you feel I am taking them out of character so I can fix it. Let me know if you would like another chapter as well! Thanks for reading!**

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_"Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock, stay with me! Dammit, Mycroft, I'll kill you if he dies!" _John's furious yells stabbed into Sherlock's mind. There was a sensation of rising out of a body of water, and Holmes' eyes flashed open.

"Sherlock!"

Brilliant lights stabbed his retinas, the wailing of sirens making his eardrums rattle. His body ached, a blinding pain in his side. Something hot and warm covered his torso. His trench coat was gone, as was his mauve dress shirt. He sat, shirtless and coated in what he assumed to be his own blood, in what he deduced to be a vehicle traveling at high speeds through the crowded streets of London. Judging by the sirens it was an ambulance with an entourage of police cars.

"John?"

Watson breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out, grabbing his best friend's wrist. The skin was cold and clammy, covered in an icy sweat. It didn't bode well, but John buried his feelings of worry, letting himself relish in the fact that Sherlock was alright, if only for the time being.

"W-what happened?" Sherlock moaned. He tried to sit up, but John's firm hand pushed him back down.

"Stay down you idiot," John huffed. "You were shot. You must not remember. We were on a case. We were scoping out that old warehouse, when we heard gunfire. We ran, but they caught up, and you got shot. Mycroft appeared with his men, and they took down the shooters. We're in an ambulance, going to the hospital. Mycroft is in the front seat, and Lestrade is behind us in a police car." John kept the summary quick and easy, not wanting to relive watching his friend getting shot like an animal. He tried to ignore the dried blood on his clothes and the dried tears on his cheeks. It was all too terrible to remember. Even in the war, he'd never broken down and lost it like he had as he watched Sherlock cry out and fall to the ground, blood pooling around him.

"Why were they shooting at us?" Sherlock asked, voice barely higher than a whisper. Emergency Medical Technicians bustled through the small space, cleaning and wrapping his wound, taking tests, adjusting tubes in his arms, and overall invading his personal space.

"Mycroft had followed us. They apparently don't like him much, so they figured killing us would be a good way to get back at him."

"Mycroft... tends to... do that... to... people..." His words came out too slow. Sherlock was a fast-talker, his words never faltering or coming out with difficulty. John chuckled, but he couldn't help but be concerned.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

_Stupid question, _John thought. _He's been shot. Of course he's not alright._

"I-I'm f-" His sentence cut off. His head, which he'd managed to raise, flopped down again, his eyes fluttering shut. The machines hooked up to Sherlock began to beat wildly, frantically. The wrist John clutched went limp, and he swore it got a few degrees colder.

The EMTs went into a frenzy. Even as a seasoned doctor, John had no idea what they were doing. He didn't care. All he knew was that his best friend was in trouble. His best friend was dying.

"SHERLOCK!"


	2. Chapter 2: The Hospital

**Hello readers! Chapter 2 is up and running. I'll try to keep updating consistently. Reviews are welcome, negative or otherwise. I appreciate knowing what I can fix. Also, if you have any ideas or requests for later chapters I would love to hear them :) Thanks for reading, and I'll try to get Chapter 3 up tomorrow.**

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_"SHERLOCK!"_

John sat in the waiting room of the hospital, head in his hands. His shoulders trembled, his heart hammering in his chest. His mind ran at a million miles an hour. He was going crazy with worry.

Mycroft had left on the pretense of questioning the criminals, but John knew he just couldn't stand being there anymore. John wanted to throttle him. His idiocy had gotten his little brother shot, and he didn't even have the decency stand in the waiting room and wait for the verdict on Sherlock's life.

It had been two hours.

Sherlock had been in surgery for two hours.

_Two hours. _

It felt like two years.

"John Watson?" A doctor in surgeon clothes, a clipboard in hand, appeared.

John snapped to his feet, burying his emotions and standing at attention like the solider he was. "Yes."

"Your friend will be fine," said the doctor. John resisted the urge to scream in relief. "He went into shock in the ambulance. He lost quite a bit of blood and suffered a mild concussion, but he should recover just fine. His brother isn't eligible to give blood, but my charts say you have the same blood type as Mr. Holmes. Would you be willing to give a donation?"

John nodded. "Of course."

"Excellent. Follow me please."

Twenty minutes later John sat at Sherlock's bedside, a bit light headed. Sherlock was sleeping, his wound wrapped and stitched. The doctor had briefed him on the surgery, then gave him instructions on how to care for Sherlock over the next few weeks to ensure a full recovery. He had given John a paper with the necessary information. It was now tucked into his jacket. Lestrade had called him a few minutes ago. The detective had informed Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft of Sherlock's condition, and he promised they would get to the bottom of it.

John stretched, his back and neck popping pleasantly. He leaned forward, gently grabbing Sherlock's wrist. He placed two fingers on it, and smiled at the steady beat of his pulse beneath his fingers. He scooted his chair forward, letting himself easily hold Sherlock's wrist. He laid his head back, and was asleep in seconds, the steady beat of Sherlock's heart his silent lullaby.

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Sherlock woke up an hour later. His head throbbed and his torso ached but otherwise he was alright. He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the bright lights. He remembered telling John he was alright, but the rest was a wall of black.

"John?" he asked, still blinking the spots from his eyes.

"Hmm?" John said sleepily. He lifted up his head, using his free hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, the other one still monitoring Sherlock's pulse.

"Why are you holding my hand?"

John flushed bright red. "I wasn't holding your hand! I was checking your pulse and I fell asleep," he said defensively.

Sherlock chuckled softly, but his face quickly turned into one of his classic confusion faces. "Why are we still in the hospital?"

"Oh, I don't know," said John sarcastically. "Maybe because you just a bullet pulled from your body?"

"Yes, but I'm fine now. Let's go. I'm bored," said Sherlock. He started to climb out of bed, but John snapped to his feet before he could even get the blankets off.

"Don't even think about it," he commanded. He put his hands firmly on Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him back down. "You have to stay here for one more day, and then we can go home. But, no cases for at least 6 weeks."

"6 WEEKS?!" Sherlock roared. John winced, and a nurse dropped a clipboard outside.

"You have to recover," said John, taking a step back, dropping his arms.

Sherlock sat up again. "I'm fine! Absolutely fine! Not a single issue." His last words slurred slightly. The machines connected to his body beeped faster, his heart beat picking up. Sherlock swayed slightly, blinking slowly, trying to settle his spinning vision. John grabbed his arms, steadying him.

"Calm yourself. You can't be straining your heart right now," said John. "You lost a lot of blood, and I could only give you so much."

"You gave me blood?" said Sherlock, steadying.

"Yes. Now I'm going to get some coffee. Sit quietly and try not to piss anyone off," said John, standing back up. His cheeks were still slightly red, and he hoped Sherlock didn't notice.

"Why are you blushing?"

"Just sit quietly, Sherlock, for once in your life."

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**That's all for now folks! Again, let me know what you think and tell me if you want another chapter. :)**


	3. Chapter 3: Home Sweet Home

**Hello again readers! As promised, Chapter 3 is here. Next chapter I'm planning on the story of the night Sherlock was shot. As always, reviews are welcome, and I would love to hear any ideas or suggestions you may have for later chapters. Thanks for reading, and enjoy :)**

**EDIT: Wow, guys. I'm so sorry. I just read through this again, since I was half asleep the last time, and found it riddled with errors. As you can see, I've reposted it, fixing my many mistakes. Deepest apologies! I promise to get a beta reader. Thanks for sticking with me :)**

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24 hours later, Sherlock was released from the hospital, much to the relief of the hospital staff, which he'd harassed endlessly. He had insisted on walking, but when he nearly face-planted the floor (luckily John had caught him first), John and Lestrade tried to convince him to take a wheelchair instead. He refused, and tried to keep walking, only to nearly topple again, this time Lestrade grabbing the back of his shirt before him and the floor had a violent greeting.

"Dammit, Sherlock," John grumbled, helping Lestrade pull him up. "If you are going to insist on walking, at least let us help."

Sherlock grumbled incoherently for a moment, but he finally caved. He slung his arms over the men's shoulders, their arms wrapping around his waist. The three managed to make it to Lestrade's car without too many weird looks. Sherlock had started out strong, but by the time he got to the car, he was pale and shaking, leaning heavily on John.

Lestrade drove the two to Baker Street, telling them he'd have an officer on duty outside at all times to make sure the shooters didn't return. Neither the doctor nor the consulting detective took much comfort in this, but they said nothing, which was rather rare for Sherlock. They watched the detective drive away, and then gradually made their way up the stairs to their flat. Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the landing. She fussed over them both, ushering them inside the apartment.

When they finally made it inside, John turned to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock still hanging on his shoulder. "Mrs. Hudson, do you think you could get some tea started?" he asked.

"Of course, dear," she said, already in the kitchen.

John started to drag Sherlock to his bedroom, but the taller man shook his head, nudging him in a different direction. John let his friend guide him into the small bathroom, and watched in confusion as Sherlock leaned over the white porcelain bowl.

"Oh!" John cried, realizing what was going on. He stuck a hand towel under the faucet, soaking it with cool water, and spread it across Sherlock's neck as he began to vomit. John patted his shoulder awkwardly as he did so, unsure of what to do.

A few minutes later, Sherlock ceased his hurling. He shoved away from the toilet, leaning against the wall. He was paper white, face gleaming with sweat. He took the towel from his neck, dabbing at his face.

"Yeah, you're perfectly fine," John said sarcastically, remembering Sherlock's claims from the night before.

"Yes, yes, congratulations," Sherlock grumbled back, acid dripping from his tongue. "Now, I'll be going to bed." He flopped onto his stomach, and began to crawl out of the room. John rolled his eyes, leaning down to help, only to have his hands swatted away.

John sighed, following Sherlock as he half crawled, half dragged himself into his bedroom. He allowed John to help him get into the bed, although he was still reluctant.

"I'll be in the other room if you need me," John said, pulling Sherlock's covers up to his neck.

"Mhm..." Sherlock mumbled, burying himself in pillows and blankets. He was asleep a moment later.

John sighed again, rubbing his burning eyes. He had barely slept more than an hour the last two days. He kept waking up moments after falling asleep, blinking away the image of Sherlock getting shot. It kept appearing in his dreams, playing over and over, and John didn't dare sleep again.

He slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door silently behind him. He moved to one of the many armchairs that littered the room, flopping down in one of the softer ones. He groaned, wanting nothing more than to sleep.

"Dear me, you look exhausted, John," Mrs. Hudson said, clicking her tongue disdainfully. "Perhaps you should take a nap as well."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for the tea."

She pursed her lips, but left without bothering him further.

John sat quietly in the living room, sipping his tea. He let his thoughts wander, not thinking about anything in particular. When he finished his tea he set the cup on a table littered with books, papers, and pencils. When he'd first moved in, the atrocious mess had driven him mad. Now, he rather liked it. The mess was a sign that the flat was more than just another apartment he was living in for the time being. It made 221B _home. _

Eventually, his eyes closed on their own accord. He drifted off to sleep, his mind journeying to 6 o'clock, 48 hours earlier.

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**That's all for now, folks! I'll do my best to have the next chapter up tomorrow.**


	4. Chapter 4: Nightmares and Board Games

**After the grammatical atrocity of my last chapter, I'm apologizing with an ****extra long chapter with some humor. Thank you all for sticking with me. Reviews are always welcome, and I would love to hear any ideas you have for later chapters. (A little nudge in the direction you would like me to take with this story would be quite helpful.) Thanks for reading, and enjoy! :)**

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_48 Hours Earlier_

Sherlock ran through the night, black trench coat flaring out behind him, gray scarf dancing in the wind. John trailed behind, huffing and puffing, breath coming out in steamy clouds. His leg had long since stopped hurting, but sometimes he swore he could feel it twinge.

"Sherlock, where are we going?" he called, clutching the stitch in his side.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock replied.

John sighed. He hated when Sherlock did this.

"No, Sherlock. We've gone over this. I don't know!" he cried, exasperated.

Sherlock came to a halt, waiting for John to catch up.

"It must terrible dull in there," he said, tapping John's head with his long index finger. John batted the hand away, thankful for the darkness that hid his blush. People always made jabs about him and Sherlock being some sort of 'couple', and every touch from his friend made his cheeks flush.

"It's actually quite nice. It must be insane in there," John retorted, rapping Sherlock's temple with is knuckle. "Now, can we walk slower? I'm feeling a bit sick."

Sherlock sighed. "Alright. But if I start to get bored it's your fault," he huffed, folding his arms across his chest.

Twenty minutes later, the two made their way through the massive entrance of one of the many abandoned warehouses that littered London and surrounding areas.

"You sure this is the place?" asked John anxiously.

"I'm positive. I'm never wrong."

John rolled his eyes.

_Whatever you say, Sherlock,_ he thought sarcastically.

"Now, follow me, and be quiet," said Sherlock, his voice dropping to a whisper. John nodded, and they began their silent creep through the warehouse.

It was eery, the silence too thick, the cold too biting. Something was very off about this place. John could feel it in his bones. Every instinct was telling him to grab his friend and run. His heart beat picked up, as though he could sense the predator that was rapidly approaching.

"John."

John jumped, Sherlock's unexpected outburst cutting off his train of thought, the previous worries erased from his mind, forgotten.

"What?" he whispered back. "Did you find something?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, but I could have sworn I heard something..." Sherlock trailed off, listening carefully.

"There!" he cried, taking off running.

"Sherlock, wait!" John snapped, running after him. Sherlock spun around corners, sprinted through the mazes of boxes, muttering to himself like a madman. "Dammit, Sherlock, I can only move so fast!" John chased after his best friend, catching only a glimpse of his coat or a wisp of his curly hair before he vanished again.

Finally, John caught up. Sherlock had skittered to a stop at the entrance to a large, empty room, the boxes recently cleared, leaving nowhere to hide or take cover. Three men stood at the opposite entrance, each one holding a gun.

"'Ello Mr. 'Olmes," said the largest man. He was tall and burly, and Sherlock could feel the stupid rolling off of him.

"Do I know you?" asked Sherlock coldly. John watched every man carefully. Every gun cocked, ready to fire. He shifted slightly, glancing at the men, trying to place himself in front of Sherlock without too much suspicion.

"Don't believe so, sir," said a black-haired man on the big one's right. The one on the left nodded tersely, his red hair sticking up in crazy angles all over his head. "But you'll remember us in your last moments."

"Is that so?" said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. He took a step forward, putting himself in front of John.

"It's the truth, sir," said the tall one. "'Cos were about to kill ya!"

Sherlock's eyes went wide, and John froze. The man pointed his gun at Sherlock with an evil grin. "Nighty night."

BOOM!

The gun popped off a round, sending out a deafening bang. The world seemed to slow. John's ears were ringing, but he could clearly see the bullet flying through the air, its destination Sherlock's unprotected chest. He tried to move, but everything was sluggish. The bang still echoed in his ears. He watched in horror as the bullet ripped through Sherlock's clothes, burying itself in his insides.

Suddenly, the world picked up speed again. Sherlock cried out, falling to the ground. Blood began to pool around him. John screamed, not paying any attention to the men in military armor burst in, guns blazing, apprehending the shooters. John ripped apart Sherlock's blood soaked mauve dress shirt, and tried to assess the wound, but ended up breaking down in tears instead. He clutched Sherlock's body in his arms, sobbing like a child, screaming his best friend's name, over and over, in some vain hope that Sherlock would snap to his feet, fit as a fiddle.

Of course, no such thing happened. Sherlock was bloody and limp in his arms. John had never felt a pain in his chest like this before. It was beyond imagining.

"_John."_

The words whispered at the edge of John's mind.

"_John, wake up!"_

Wake up? Wasn't he awake? No, he was dreaming. The world around him began to disintegrate, and his eyes flashed open.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock's face swam into view. He stood over John, watching him with concerned eyes.

_Sherlock? Showing concern? _

"Must have been some amazing drugs they gave you," John mumbled sleepily, sitting up from his chair.

Sherlock ignored the jab. "You were having a nightmare."

"Was I?" asked John innocently. He knew full well what had happened in his mind, as much as he didn't want to.

"Yes. You kept tossing and crying out and whimpering," Sherlock said. The worry in his eyes was so clear John felt himself slightly taken aback. Sherlock quickly cleared his throat, and the steely mask appeared. "It woke me up from my lovely nap," he said disdainfully.

John rolled his eyes. "Deepest apologies," he said icily.

"I'm starving," Sherlock said, giving John an expectant look.

"Why did you get out of bed?" John asked, rubbing his temples, staring at the floor.

"Got bored after you woke me up."

"Go back to bed and read a book or something."

"I'm _bored, _Watson. Entertain me." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, still looking at John expectantly.

"I'm going to throttle you," John sighed. "Alright fine. Sit down, be still, and be quiet. I'll make some food, and we'll play a board game."

"A board game?"

"Yes, haven't you played one before?"

"No. It sounds boring."

"Well we're playing, so too bad, so sad. I have a few in my bag in my room. A few Americans in Afghanistan gave me some games from America. They seem entertaining enough."

"I'm sure anything they have in America we have in London."

"Probably true. Still, I'll be making you play. What kind of sandwich do you want?"

"None. I want a cigarette."

"Cigarettes aren't food."

"So? I'm injured I should get one."

"No, you shouldn't, because we don't want to add lung cancer to the list of 'Things That are Wrong with Sherlock'."

Sherlock was grumpy for the next half hour while John prepared a meal that the doctor had said was alright for Sherlock at the moment. When he finished, he brought out a plate with a very simple, very boring looking sandwich and a tall glass of juice.

"There you go. I'm going to get the game."

"Let's find a case."

"No cases," John replied from his bedroom.

"I'm going to start shooting the walls again."

"Mrs. Hudson will kill you."

"Fine. Then I'll destroy the flat looking for my cigarettes again."

"You'll never find them. I tossed them out last week."

"Well, then I'll go out and buy a new pack."

"Good luck getting down the stairs by yourself."

Sherlock stammered for a moment, trying to come up with another threat, but he had nothing. He flopped back against the arm-chair, grumbling a bit more, and then he fell silent.

John appeared a moment later, holding a large, colorful box in his hands. The labels on the sides and top read: _Clue._

"This, Sherlock, is the perfect game for you," John said with a grin.

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**That's all for now folks. Again, I would love to hear any ideas for later chapters, and I will get chapter 4 up as soon as I can. Have a lovely day and thank you for reading.**


	5. Chapter 5: Clue

**Sorry for the wait my lovely readers. Swim meets, school, and friends keep adding up! I'll try to get Chapter 6 up soon :) As usual, reviews are always welcome, and I'd love to hear any ideas you have for later chapters. Thanks for reading! **

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"I win! Again!" Sherlock crowed delightedly. "Foolish Miss Scarlet. It is completely impractical to kill a man in the library with a gun. You were far too easy to catch. Shall we play again?"

"We've played for four hours, Sherlock. Can't we play something else?"

"You're just saying that because I'm winning."

"I'm saying it because it gets tiresome playing the same game over and over, knowing I'm always going to lose," John replied.

"Just one more game?" Sherlock put on his rarely used puppy dog face and John felt his resolve crumbling.

At a last-ditch attempt to find a diversion, he checked his watch, as though it could tell him what to do. Surprisingly, it did. John grinned.

"We'll play another game after we change your bandages," John said, standing from the arm-chair. He stretched, unable to hide his pleased smile.

Sherlock pouted, not standing.

"We'll never play if you just sit there."

He sighed, standing up. "The bathroom?" Sherlock asked.

"Sounds about right. I'll meet you in there. I have to grab my med kit." John vanished into his bedroom, Sherlock into the bathroom. A few minutes later, John walked into the bathroom, digging through a plastic box. "Alright, take your shirt off," he said.

"What?"

"Take your shirt off," John repeated. "I need to change your bandages."

"Right, of course." Sherlock stood tall, lifting the gray shirt over his head. He had it almost off when he winced, accidentally pulling on his wound painfully. John sighed, of course noticing. He stretched to his tip-toes, reaching up with his small arms, and gently removed Sherlock's shirt the rest of the way.

"Why are you so bloody tall?" John grumbled, tossing the shirt into the sink.

Sherlock didn't reply. John didn't notice, but Sherlock's cheeks were rosy red.

"Alright, hold very still," John said. He crouched next to Sherlock, head level with the wound. His fingers were light as feathers, carefully unwinding the bandage. As he approached the end of the wrappings, Sherlock began to wince, eyes and teeth clenched tight. He tried his best to hide it, but he couldn't help squirming, disliking the feeling of the bandage being removed.

"Hold still," John murmured. "We're almost done." As gently as he could, John pulled the bandage from the wound itself.

"Is it over?" Sherlock asked, clutching the counter top so tight his knuckles were white. He took a deep breath, deciding to not wait for an answer, and tried to walk away.

"Not quite," John said, grabbing Sherlock's wrist. "I still have to reapply the bandage."

Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back.

"Oh quit whining. Put your arms up."

Sherlock obeyed, raising his arms above his head.

A few minutes later the job was done. A clean, white bandage wound around his torso. Sherlock had done well at hiding how weak he'd been feeling, but this long period of standing had exposed it all. He was wobbly on his feet, his legs trembling slightly.

"Off to bed then?" John said, standing.

Sherlock nodded tiredly, slinging his arm over John's shoulder. John sighed, hauling him to the bedroom.

Sherlock flopped on his bed, yawning. He yanked up his blankets, and John realized he'd forgotten his shirt. He shook his head, tossing the matter from his mind.

Watson was turning to leave when Sherlock spoke up.

"I would prefer not to have my blood boil in my sleep if you would turn down the heat," he said, staring at the ceiling.

"What are you talking about?" asked John, spinning around, hand inches from the doorknob. "It's freezing."

Sherlock glanced over at John, noticed the goosebumps on his skin, and he leaned up on his arms, eyebrows knitting in confusion. Sweat gleamed on his face, curls sticking to his forehead.

John walked back to the bed, sitting on the edge next to Sherlock. He moved Sherlock's curls, placing his hand on his forehead. Sherlock went cross-eyed trying to see John's hand.

"You're burning up," John murmured. "I'm going to get the thermometer." He stood, rushing out the door.


	6. Chapter 6: Sweet Dreams, John

**Hello readers! I'm amazed with the sheer amount of people who have read this and are following! You guys are wonderful :) Thanks for all the support! I do have a funeral tomorrow so forgive me if the next chapter takes longer than usual. As usual, I would love to hear your thoughts and/or ideas for later chapters. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!**

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Sherlock laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, his fever too high to let him sleep. John had dragged in an arm-chair to keep an eye on Sherlock, and the genius could clearly see his friend was exhausted. But John refused to fall asleep until Sherlock was snoozing, so Sherlock had faked it until Watson finally succumbed to sleep.

Now as Sherlock rested in his cozy bed, his thoughts never strayed from one subject. His incredible mind circulated completely around one thing.

John Watson.

Why did he care so much? Why was he so kind to Sherlock? Why did he put up with Sherlock's insane antics? Why on _Earth _was he so concerned for Sherlock?

It was a rare moment when Sherlock had no idea what the answer was. He wanted to ask John right out, but, again, it was rare moment when Sherlock was completely out of his element. He felt, of all things, shy.

Sherlock Holmes felt shy.

The sentence was the most ludicrous thing Sherlock had ever had cross his mind. 'Shy' and 'Sherlock' never, ever belonged int he same sentence. It simply didn't work like that.

Sherlock's train of thought broke by John shifting restlessly in his sleep. The consulting detective sat up, watching the small man toss and turn. John flinched, and Sherlock's mind went racing.

"Nightmare," he said aloud. "Loud noises. Most likely gunfire. He is a veteran so it's probably a memory from his time in Afghanistan. Judging from his facial expressions and movements it's a very traumatic experience. I should wake him. It's rather annoying."

Sherlock threw back his blankets swinging his legs off the bed. His bare feet planted firmly on the floor, he hefted himself out of bed. He teetered for a moment, but he managed to make it to John without too much trouble.

"John" he said. His long arm reached out, grabbing John's small shoulder. "John, wake up."

John's eyes flashed open. His body trembled, his pupils dilated in fear. He stared at Sherlock for a moment, his mind rushing to the present. As soon as he was fully aware, his mask appeared and the fear vanished.

"What are you doing out of bed?" he barked, snapping to his feet. "You're sick, Sherlock. If you won't let me take you back to the hospital, at least rest and try to get better." John rubbed his bloodshot eyes, dark purple bags beneath his fingers, and Sherlock could see his knees shaking. John was barely standing.

'I hardly ever get sick," Sherlock said defensively. "It will pass quickly enough. You, however, should be the one resting."

"I didn't get shot."

"I'm not having nightmares."

John faltered for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was quiet and slightly choked. "How could you possibly know that?"

"I'm incredibly intelligent and observant. Are they about your time in Afghanistan?"

"No," John said stiffly. Sherlock noted that he wasn't lying.

Sherlock looked bemused for a moment, his mind running through the options.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to my bed to sleep," John said, not wanting Sherlock to finish his train of thought. John brushed past him, heading to the door. Sherlock's arm snapped out automatically, grabbing John's shoulder. John spun around, face pulled tight, annoyance and anger in his every feature.

"What?" he demanded.

"Sorry. Automatic. Nothing," Sherlock replied quickly. His hand dropped to his side.

John marched out the door without another word.

Sherlock flopped back into bed, yanking the covers up around him. He sighed, staring at the plaster ceiling, his thoughts right back where they had started.

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**I have a vague idea for the next chapter, and it should be rather exciting, so stay tuned! Sorry this one was rather quiet. It's been a slow day and my brain is fried. :) I promise action is on the way! Thanks for reading and have a lovely day/night. **


	7. Chapter 7: Everyone Hates Shopping

**Hello readers! Sorry this update took longer than usual. Funerals are rough business. But there's nothing like a good writing session to get your spirits up! As always, reviews are welcome, and I would love to hear any ideas you have for later chapters. Thanks for reading. :)**

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The next two weeks passed without incident. Sherlock obediently rested in bed and John managed to establish some order in the flat. The drama of that night was forgotten.

The next Saturday, due to Sherlock's incredibly good behavior and quick healing, John allowed him to go out to get groceries with him. They went around noon. Sherlock loved getting his scarf and coat back on, but John warned him not to strain himself. Sherlock pretended to hear the lecture John gave him about being careful, and then the two set out.

It was a cold, rainy day in London. Dirty puddles littered the pavement, everyone bustling about with umbrellas. Sherlock was all for walking, relishing in the brisk breeze, but John insisted on a cab.

They rode in silence to the grocery store.

Finally, they reached the market. As they entered through the sliding glass doors, John began to read off a list he'd prepared.

"Yes, yes," said Sherlock dismissively. "I have to use the loo. I'll meet you in the dairy." Before John could respond, Sherlock ran off, heading towards the toilets in the back. He rolled his eyes, heading off to get vegetables, not noticing the man in the black hood that followed his friend.

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Sherlock never met John in the dairy section. John waited there for ten minutes, getting more annoyed with every passing moment. He searched the store, but there wasn't a sign of Sherlock anywhere. Finally, John checked the toilets, hardly believing he could still be in there.

John knew something was wrong the second he pushed open the door. The place was a wreck. Mirrors were shattered, sinks cracked, the doors to the stalls hanging on their hinges, and water was everywhere.

"Sherlock?" John called, forgetting his earlier anger,

The bathroom was silent as a graveyard.

Something red caught John's eye. The sink farthest from the door had a splash of blood across the smooth, white surface. The doctor ran over, heart pounding. The mirror in front of the bloodstained sink looked like someone's head had been slammed into it and there were traces of blood on the flask as well. Worst of all, a gray scarf laid in a crumpled heap beneath the cracked sink. It was a scarf John would know anywhere.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

Policemen bustled through the small, men's bathroom. Inspector Lestrade stood in front of the mirror at the farthest edge of the bathroom. He stared into the shattered glass, arms folded across his chest. His men had tested the blood. It belonged to Sherlock Holmes. The forensics team had found traces of Holmes' hair and saliva on the mirror as well. They'd determined, judging from how much the glass was shattered, the hit had knocked the man unconscious. Currently, they had no idea where Sherlock could be. John Watson had been questioned, but no one suspected the mild-mannered doctor had hurt his own friend. In fact, the second he'd been released, the man had run off, already in search of his best friend.

Lestrade felt his gut wrench.

This was about the time the detective would have called Mr. Holmes on a normal case.

But this was no normal case, and his consulting detective was gone.

"Where are you?" Lestrade whispered, staring at his warped reflection.

* * *

"I don't have time for this Mycroft!" John stood in a grand office. His nostrils flared, his hands clenched into fists. Mycroft Holmes sat behind a fancy oak desk across from Watson, face pale and gaunt, fingers laced together.

"I'm afraid you'll have to make some," Mycroft said tightly."

"I'm not making anything!" John snapped. "I'm trying to find your little brother, who, apparently, has been kidnapped for unknown reason, and is still trying to recover from a gunshot wound you basically gave him!"

"Oh, I know why he was kidnapped," murmured Mycroft, ignoring John's jabs.

"Why haven't you spoke up?" John cried.

"They'll kill him if I make a peep," Mycroft replied coldly, staring at a space of wall behind John.

"Who's 'they'?" John asked, face draining of color.

"No one of your concern. All you must know is that these people want information I have very badly and would do anything to obtain it."

"Then fork it over and we can get Sherlock back."

"It doesn't work like that, John. This is a matter of national security. If I 'fork over' this information, it could destroy this nation. These men are incredibly dangerous. They managed to capture Sherlock, and they will do anything to get this information."

"You and your government drama are not more important than your little brother!" John snapped. He turned on his heel, marching out the door, too angry to stand in the same room as Mycroft anymore.

"I'll find you Sherlock. I promise."

* * *

**That's the end for now ladies and gents. I'm exhausted! Sleep well (or have an excellent day, wherever you may be) and thank you for reading. :)**


	8. Chapter 8: Beatings and Revelations

**Nearly Christmas! (And happy holidays to those of you who don't celebrate Christmas! :)) Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I love hearing how you feel about the story. Sorry these updates have taken longer than usual. School has been a bit crazy and getting sick never helps. Fair warning: This chapter is a bit graphic. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this next chapter, and I would love to hear any ideas you may have for later on. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

_I'll find you, Sherlock, I promise._

A beefy fist smashed into Sherlock's jaw and a camera flashed.

"What are the codes?" a deep voice demanded. Sherlock spat blood from his mouth.

"This is terribly boring. How about we play a game of _Clue_ instead?"

A foot slammed into Sherlock's chest in response, sending the air rushing from his lungs. He struggled to draw a breath.

"You're a snarky one, aren't you Mr. Holmes?" the man with the camera said, his laugh hollow and devoid of any emotion.

"I'm just getting started," Sherlock wheezed. Chains bound his arms and legs to the wall. Pain was everywhere. His head throbbed, his arms felt rubbery, and he was pretty sure he'd bruised a rib. His gunshot wound had reopened and he could feel blood trickling down his body. His left eyes was swollen shut and his lip was split.

"So are we." The big man with the hairy knuckles that had hit him earlier drew a knife from his pocket. His beefy fingers ran along the smooth surface of the blade. It looked very, very sharp.

"Are we going to have a sword fight?" Sherlock asked.

"He really is pushing it," said the camera-man.

"I think he needs to take a nap," agreed the big man.

"I'll pass on that, thank you very much," Sherlock said stiffly.

"Ah, but sweetheart, you don't have a choice." The large man wrapped his enormous hand around Sherlock's throat, cutting of his air supply. Sherlock bucked and thrashed, trying to loosen the hand that crushed his windpipe.

Eventually, Sherlock's eyes rolled upwards and closed, and his body went limp.

The man pulled his hand away, and Sherlock's lungs pushed air in and out of him once again. He glared at Holmes' limp form, wanting nothing more than to stab his knife into Sherlock's chest and watch as he choked on his own blood.

Of course, that wasn't allowed. He could feel Stevens, the small man with the camera, eyeing him warily, free hand wavering over the gun on his belt. Their job was to try to get the information out of Sherlock, beat the snot out of him, and send the nasty pictures to his older brother and his best friend.

_More like boyfriend,_ he snickered in his head.

Killing was not on the agenda, sadly.

"I'm off to get a coffee. Fancy one?" asked Stevens, uploading the photos to his computer and sending them off via email.

"I'll pass."

"Alright. Don't kill him, alright James?"

"Go get your coffee, Stevens."

Stevens left without another word.

James stared and Sherlock, stroking his blade. He began to fantasize. He wondered if the trouble he would get it was worth killing Mr. Holmes. The longer he thought, the more he convinced himself it was.

It was worth everything to watch the man who had ruined his life die.

* * *

"Think, John. Think!" John paced back and forth through his flat, eyes clenched shut in concentration. "Where would they take Sherlock? What clues has he left?" John held Sherlock's scarf in his fist.

"THINK!"

The last few hours ran through his mind. He analyzed everything, even to the point of trying to remember which brand of lettuce he'd decided he didn't want.

John roared in aggravation, kicking a dusty book across the room, making it slam into the wall with a bang.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket, distracting him for a moment.

It was a text message.

**NUMBER BLOCKED**

That was never a good sign.

John opened the message warily, and nearly threw his phone against the wall in rage.

Those filthy kidnappers had sent him pictures of Sherlock, bloodied and beaten, strung up on a wall like a carcass. At the end of the string of pictures, they'd left him a message.

**GIVE US THE INFORMATION WE WANT AND HE LIVES. IF YOU DO NOT, HE WILL DIE AND YOU WILL WATCH. ATTEMPT TO CONTACT US AND HE WILL DIE.**

"Those bastards!"

John was about to delete the text entirely, when he noticed something about the wall Sherlock was strung up on, and Sherlock's body position. The wall was brick, but it wasn't gray nor red. It was green. Deep, forest green. He'd never seen such a wall. Then, he could see Sherlock's hands making an odd shape. To someone who didn't know Sherlock it would look like a hand spasm, but John knew it was a message. He stared at it for a good ten minutes before he realized what Sherlock was trying to say.

He was telling John exactly where he was.

Five minutes later, John was running out to the street, phone in one hand, map in the other, Sherlock's scarf around his neck. He hailed a cab, giving the driver an address as fast as he could, still holding the phone to his ear.

"This is Mycroft Holmes. Leave a message."

_Beep!_

"Dammit, Mycroft. Answer your phone for once in your life. I know where Sherlock is. Get your men ready." John punched the end button with his thumb.

_I'm coming, Sherlock. Just please don't get yourself killed before I get there._

* * *

**Sorry to leave you on another cliff hanger! There is so much to be done before Christmas Break. Have a lovely day/night and I promise to update soon. Thanks again for reading :)**


	9. Chapter 9: A Hero in a Sweater

**Thank you all for the wonderful reviews :) It's always nice to hear what you guys think of the story so far. Christmas Break has begun for me, so I'll be able to update much faster. I know the dates are different, but I figured I should give you a Christmas piece since it is Christmas Eve. Next chapter will be a 'Christmas Special', and I'll be giving you that in a few hours. Yes, two chapters in one night. I feel like I owe my readers for all their amazing support and for how long it has taken me to update. :) Thank you for reading, and enjoy!**

**EDIT: Deepest apologies to all you Brits. I am not British, and often forget the little details of these things. I have changed 'Thanksgiving' to 'The first of December'. **

* * *

Sherlock woke awhile later, alone except for the rodents that squeaked in the walls. His throat ached horribly and he could feel bruises where the large man had throttled him. The man he spoke of had vanished, leaving only his knife behind, which was only a foot out of Sherlock's grasp. The camera man was gone as well, but he'd taken everything. The factory was silent as a grave.

Sherlock stretched as much as he could with these absurd chains pinning him to the wall, and felt some relief. Still, it wasn't pleasant. It was so dark in the factory, he could hardly see three feet in front of him. As he stared into the blackness, his thoughts began to wander. He was getting bored. He prayed that John had gotten his message. If his captors came back and Sherlock was still chained to the wall, he would be white and cold before John could even trip over the doorway. The eyes of the man who had choked him and told Sherlock everything he needed to know. That man was angry. Very, very angry, and he was willing to throw what little life he had left to have his revenge. And it seemed that the heart of his anger was Mr. Holmes himself. It all made for a rather messy situation, and Sherlock couldn't deny that he was a little anxious.

The silence was deafening. Sherlock shut his burning eyes, letting his other senses take control, most of all his hearing. He strained his sharp ears with all his might, searching for anything that could help him.

Suddenly, a door two stories up creaked open. Sherlock's heart picked up speed, but he remained still, listening intently.

It was a man. He walked slowly, lightly, trying his best not to make any noise. He was creeping through the dark. He was wearing loafers, and he was nervous but he was great at hiding it. Sherlock's captors would never walk in such a way. They would strut proudly. It couldn't be Mycroft because he would never come alone.

That left only one option.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock yelled the word with all his might, putting every bit of power and strength he had into it. His voice rang through the metal walls, bouncing off every surface, and he knew his best friend had heard him.

If it wasn't John, Sherlock was dead, but he was willing to take the risk.

But, luck was with Mr. Holmes that night, and his best friend indeed crept through the dark.

John began to run at the sound of Sherlock's yell, his heart racing. His feet pounded the floor, his short legs stretching to their limit. He was going faster than he ever had before. Even in the war, when his life was on the line, he'd never ran so fast. It was an incredible, exhilarating sensation that made his skin tingle with excitement.

Finally, he reached the basement, where his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, waited.

For a moment John just stared at the bloody man strung up on the wall, barely believing what he was seeing.

"You got my message. Took you long enough."

Sherlock grinned crookedly, and John felt himself grinning back.

"You are a bloody fool, and you are never, ever going shopping with me again." John ran over, eyes shining in the darkness, and he began to work the chains off Sherlock. John had learned as a child to pick a lock, and it was a simple matter for him to release his friend. After a few minutes of John wiggling a pin around, the locks on the chains clicked and Sherlock flopped to the floor.

"Come on," said John, helping him up. "The police will be here soon." Watson offered his arm to Holmes, but Sherlock wouldn't take it. He was getting tired of passing out and leaning on others. He stood tall and straight, swallowing his pain, looking as dignified as a king. Thus, the two made their way out of the dark factory, never needing to speak a word.

Blinding lights hit Sherlock's eyes the second he stepped onto the pavement. Sirens wailed, voices babbled, and police cars flashed their lights.

"It's chilly," John said, distracting Sherlock from the sounds of humanity. He removed the scarf from his neck, and carefully wrapped it around Sherlock's. "And I figured you'd want this back."

Sherlock smiled softly at his friend. John was the only one who knew Sherlock had feelings, seeing as John was the only one he showed them too.

Just on time, Lestrade appeared, and Sherlock's cold mask reappeared on his face.

"You look like shit," Greg remarked.

"I'll recover. Did you find the men?"

"Yes. They were returning just as we got here. They tried to make a run for it."

"Did you catch them?"

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably under Sherlock's questioning stare.

"They were shot. The bodies are going to the morgue as we speak."

John thought Sherlock was going to start spitting fire.

"You SHOT THEM?" he roared.

"Ah, look at the time. We need to go, Sherlock. Evening, Lestrade." John dragged Sherlock away, making sure he didn't try to strangle their only friend on the police force.

* * *

"Idiots! Completely simpletons!"

Sherlock hadn't dropped the subject. He paced around the flat, fists clenched, nostrils flaring, face red.

"Sherlock, you need to rest," John said tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Sleep is useless. Sleep will not help me figure out why those men kidnapped me."

"We both know that isn't true, brother."

Mycroft appeared in the doorway of the flat, umbrella in hand, eyes cold and calculating.

"Mycroft! Perfect timing. I've been looking for an outlet for this fury."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Oh let us have our fun, John. You know the games siblings play. Why don't you go ask Mrs. Hudson if she has some spare pillows? I think Sherlock will need them tonight."

It was a clear dismissal, and John knew he had no chance arguing. He gave Mycroft a hateful look, then left.

"Go away, Mycroft. You think far too loud." Sherlock grabbed his violin, ceasing his incessant pacing. He brandished his bow like a sword, and began to scrape away on the strings.

"We need to talk," Mycroft said.

"If you don't leave now, I will hit you with this violin so hard you won't remember your own name."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock froze, turning to his brother with a look that made the great government man quake. "Don't. Test. Me," he said at a low whisper, leaning in close, nose nearly touching Mycroft's. "I know exactly why you are here, and why those men took me. It didn't make more than a look at your shoes. If you don't leave this flat this very second- well, I don't really think you want to know."

Mycroft's eyes went wide. Never, in all his years with his brother, had such hatred burned a wall between them. Mycroft had never seen Sherlock so angry. "I don't understand," he whispered. "You care very little, if nothing at all, for your own safety in the pursuit of knowledge. You have been inches from death and not backed down or been angry. You never let your emotions go like this. What is going on, Sherlock?" Mycroft searched his brother's face for any sign.

"LEAVE!" Sherlock bellowed.

Mycroft took the hint, and ran out the door without another word.

"That went well," said John a while later, sipping his tea.

Sherlock's anger had waned. He laid on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He would glance at John ever few seconds, making sure he was still there.

"Sherlock, it's time for you to rest."

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"What's the date today?" he burst.

John looked a bit startled, but he checked his watch, unsure himself.

"December 20th," he said, shocked. How had he not noticed it was so close to Christmas? Time had slipped away over the last few weeks, and John had hardly noticed the snow that was piling up on the windows. He had taken no notice of the Christmas season besides the annoying commercials on the telly and the decorations that had appeared in town. But hose decorations had appeared the first of December, and for some reason he'd been thinking that he still had plenty of time before Christmas. He hadn't even put up a tree.

"We ought to decorate the flat," said Sherlock mildly.

"Yes, we ought. But we'll do it tomorrow. Sherlock, please, sleep. You need it."

"Alright. Will you be here when I wake?"

John gave Sherlock an odd look. He wasn't being himself tonight, not one bit. Maybe it was the exhaustion, making all his walls go down.

"Yes, of course. I'll be right here."

"Very well. I'll need breakfast, after all."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was fine. He always was.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and fell asleep, right there on the couch, without a word.

* * *

**I'm sorry this took so long. I had a horrible case of writer's block. Sorry this is a bit rushed, but I lost my first attempt at this chapter and I couldn't remember my ideas! But no worries, my mind is filled with ideas for the next chapter. Just a reminder, I will be posting said-chapter in a few hours. It will be lovely, Christmas fluff. Thank you all for reading, and have a very merry Christmas. **


	10. Chapter 10: Christmas Sing-Alongs

**As promised, another chapter! This one is a very fluffy Christmas chapter, seeing as it as Christmas Eve where I am. :) I hope you have enjoyed the story so far. I will try to update quickly, but there will be no chapter tomorrow, which I hope you can all understand :) Have an amazing Christmas, and enjoy!**

* * *

The next 4 days passed without incident, and were actually quite enjoyable. Sherlock was on the mend and actually managed to stay quiet for more than five minutes at a time, and John managed to decorate the entire flat and do his Christmas shopping before Christmas Eve. 221B Baker Street was bright and cheerful, tree in the corner decorated to perfection (thanks to Sherlock's OCD and Mrs. Hudson's need to have everything pretty) and packed with presents, the scent of candy canes and gingerbread in the air. John had tucked away all of Sherlock's absurd experiments away, and for once the flat was clean.

On Christmas Eve John and Sherlock were alone. Sherlock didn't want visitors, which John agreed with, for once. They were both in need of some quiet time and a raging Christmas party with friends poking fun and drinking and all around being harsh and loud didn't sound like a great idea.

So, the two men sat peacefully in front of the roaring fire, sipping tea, not saying a word. Sherlock flicked through a book, John browsing the news on his laptop. Mycroft had managed to keep the kidnapping out of the press, but he hadn't come near Baker Street since Sherlock had threatened him.

John still didn't quite understand why Sherlock was so angry about that, and why he was so odd that night. But, he didn't want to dwell on it. It was Christmas Eve, and John wanted to enjoy it.

"Sherlock," he said, shutting his laptop.

"Hmm?" said Sherlock, glancing up from his book.

"Do you think you could-erm-" John stammered for a moment, trying to find the words he wanted.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked, shutting his book.

"Think you could play some Christmas music on the violin?" John felt his cheeks warm.

Sherlock sighed, setting his book down on a coffee table.

"I suppose so," he said, standing. His green eyes flickered in the firelight. He grabbed his violin and his bow, and began to play. First he played Silent Night, and John began to sing quietly through the second verse, and he was amazed when Sherlock joined him on the last. Sherlock's voice was deep and smooth, and John found himself smiling as they sang together. He played Joy to the World and a few others, all the while the two singing together, before John spoke up.

"Sherlock, for the last song, do you know O Holy Night?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. adjusting the violin. The boys hadn't noticed, but Mrs. Hudson had snuck up to leave cookies, and now stood, hand over her heart, watching the two boys.

Sherlock began to play, and John sighed contentedly. It was one of his favorite songs, and Sherlock's rendition on the violin was beautiful. He filled the flat with music, and John hummed quietly along. He didn't sing to this song. He felt no need. He didn't even remember the lyrics. He just knew that he loved the sound of it, even as a little boy. It brought back rich memories of Christmases long ago. he closed his eyes, immersing himself in the past for a rich moment.

Sherlock watched John, intrigued. Why did John like this song so much? Yes, it was a beautiful work of music, but it was just a song. Yet, the longer he watched John, the more Sherlock found himself liking the song. It was quite nice, and John seemed to really love it, so Sherlock decided it would be one of his favorite songs.

Sherlock ended on a long, soft note. He smiled at himself, pleased with his performance. He hadn't played the song in at least 4 years, but he still knew it, and had played it very well.

John opened his eyes, smiling softly. Sherlock had learned a few things about being kind from John, and he pretended not to notice the way John's eyes shined brighter than they had a few minutes ago and the way he cleared his throat, his entire face burning with emotion.

"Thank you. That was v-very nice," said John quietly, his voice breaking slightly. He cleared his throat again, and his composure returned, and he stood tall and strong. "Well, I'm off to bed. You should be going to bed soon, as well." John paused, chuckling at something that had just popped into his head. "Don't want Father Christmas finding you up and about when he comes along to bring you presents."

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes. "Go to sleep John. You're getting loopy."

John nodded, still chuckling at himself. He walked to where Sherlock stood at the fire, staring at the dancing flames.

His hand clapped on Sherlock's shoulder, catching him by surprise.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," he said, glancing up meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Happy Christmas John."

John smiled at him, his hand lingering on Sherlock's shoulder. After a moment it dropped to his side, and John exited the room, off to bed.

"Brought you some treats, dear," said Mrs. Hudson, eyes full of tears, her outburst making Sherlock jump.

"Are you crying, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, eyeing his landlady with curiosity and concern.

"Oh, no, no. Just the fire getting to me I guess," she choked out, hand still clutching her heart. She ran forward, hugging Sherlock around the middle, then ran off to call all her friends and brag about the adorable scene she'd just witnessed.

Sherlock shook it off, adding it up to Mrs. Hudson being old and silly.

For the next two hours, Sherlock sat in the living room, watching the flames until they died down to little more than flickering embers. He was caught in whirlwind of thought again, on the one thing that had ensnared him for days on end.

John Watson was certainly an entrancing subject.

* * *

**Christmas is the greatest excuse for a lovely bit of fluff! :D I wish you all Happy Holidays and a wonderful New Year. Thank you for reading, and have an AMAZING holiday season!**


	11. Chapter 11: Deafening Silence

**Hello again readers! I'm sorry it's been so long. Things have been a bit crazy lately, and catching the flu didn't help much. This chapter seems rushed and boring to me, so I give you full permission to hate me for it.**

** Thanks for sticking with me :) I'll try to update at least once a week on all my stories, so keep a watchful eye out :) Reviews are always welcome. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Sherlock, do you ever plan to leave the flat again?" John Watson sat in an arm-chair by the fire, fingers typing away on his keyboard, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. He wore his favorite cream sweater and a cup of tea was cooling on the end table to his left.

Sherlock Holmes was splayed along the couch, hands in a prayer like position at his chin. His eyes were staring at the ceiling but his mind was miles away. He wore his blue robe and a pair of white pajamas. His dark curls were a wild mess. John tried to remember how long Sherlock had sat there, not eating or drinking, sometimes looking like he wasn't even breathing. He gave up counting after three days. His friend had spoken no more than one-worded, clipped responses for 2 weeks. The silence was deafening.

"Shouldn't you drink some water?" John took another stab at getting Sherlock to talk.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, eyes never leaving the ceiling.

"Does that mean I have to get it for you if you're going to drink it?"

"Yes."

John grumbled, setting his laptop aside. He had given up arguing with Sherlock for the time being, deciding it better to keep him alive. He went to the kitchen and began to fill a glass. John was beginning to worry about Sherlock. His friend was usually a constant motor mouth and hated being bored for any period of time. He didn't sit still very often and always seemed to be doing a thousand things at once. Over the last 2 weeks he'd fallen silent. He hardly moved from the couch. He was losing weight and he looked rather sickly. John practically had to drag him to his bed every night, only to wake up and find him back on the couch. His irrational fear of germs was the only thing keeping him bathing regularly.

At first the stillness was a welcome relief from the insane, crazy life they usually lived, bouncing from case to case, never sitting still for longer than a few moments. But it only took a few days before the silence and calmness started to drive John mad. He had left the flat a few times to get a taste of civilization, of sound. But no matter how long he walked, he always strayed back to 221B, his worry for Sherlock overcoming his need for society. He kept worrying his friend would go over the edge and do something idiotic and stupid when John wasn't around, and he also had to keep an eye on Sherlock's healing wound (which was doing amazingly well). John felt very responsible for his friend and flatmate.

"Here you are, Cylon," John said handing Sherlock the glass. He chuckled at himself for the reference to Harry's favorite nerd show.

Sherlock wound his fingers around this glass, tearing his eyes from the ceiling. His fingertips brushed John's, and for the first time in a week Sherlock met John's eyes.

"Thank you," he said.

_Two words! _John thought sarcastically._ A bloody miracle. _

"Hungry?" John asked, hoping for more words from Sherlock.

"No."

John sighed. Back to one worded responses.

"Alright. I'm going to run to the market. We're out of milk." John reached for his leather jacket that was swung across his arm-chair.

Sherlock nodded and sat up slightly, coming to reality for the first time in what felt like years to his friend. He sipped his water and had an odd look on his face.

John left and Sherlock sat in silence for a moment, slowly finishing his glass of water. John would be displeased if he came back and saw the glass empty.

"My hiatus is over," Sherlock decided. He jumped off the couch and set his empty glass on the floor. "It is time to take action."

He threw his robe to the floor and glided to the bathroom, working out the stiffness in his legs. He paused at the door, stretching. His back and shoulders popped pleasantly and his sighed.

He yanked open the door and ten minutes later he stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel to find John setting a grocery bag on the table.

"Hello. I see you have the milk. And you're already ready to go so we'll be off soon." Sherlock adjusted the towel around his narrow hips. His wet curls stuck to his face and droplets of water trickled down his legs and arms, streaming down his chest. His skin was slightly red from the hot water and John could see steam rolling off of him.

"Erm-uh-ye-yup." John was finding it difficult to form words. His tongue kept tripping up and his face felt hot.

"I'll be ready in five minutes," Sherlock said. John couldn't help smile at the sound of his voice. It had been so long since he'd heard it longer than a moment. It was just as deep and rich as usual, carrying authority and wisdom.

Sherlock flounced into his room and John put the milk in the fridge. In less than 5 minutes they were already back to the usual routine without a hitch.

John felt like singing.

A moment later Sherlock Holmes exited his bedroom and John's world felt right again.

Mr. Holmes was sporting his favorite purple shirt tucked into black pants and his infamous overcoat.

"Would you like the deerstalker?" John teased, tossing a lump of gray fabric at the taller man.

Sherlock swatted it to the ground, wrinkling his nose.

"I thought I tossed that in the fireplace."

"I told Lestrade about it on our last case and he sent a new one over."

"At least we have tinder for the fireplace again. Now, let's go." Sherlock began his march to the door, John trotting behind.

"Where are we going?"

"To the home of the man who tried to kill me."

* * *

**That's it for now! Sorry about the cliffhanger. I'm swamped with homework right now and the inspiration is lacking. I hope the Johnlock made up for it a bit :)**


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